


Make A Stand

by Pantherlily



Category: Critical Role (Web Series), UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Blood, Depression and suicidal warning, Gore, Graphic Depictions of War, Gun Violence, I hope I got everything for this first go around, If more triggers pop as the fic continues I will do my best to tag them, Pre Deadwood, UnDeadwood Mini-series (Critical Role)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-01-23 00:30:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21311164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pantherlily/pseuds/Pantherlily
Summary: Making a stand isn't always right or easy. The Deadwood 5 know that here and now they must stand together. But before they can stand together, they must first stand alone.Six chapters, one for each character and a sixth for an epilogue.Spoilers for season one.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

Make a stand. It wasn’t until later in life that Mason really understood what that meant. He had joined the war, not to make a difference per se, but because he thought it would be glorious. It was not. It was terrifying. Disgusting. Gruesome. People just stood around shooting each other until one side finally gave up. Or worse, close quarters with bayonets. Sometimes even their bare hands because at some point the bullets ran out and not everyone had a sharp blade at the end of their gun to stab people with. Canon fire was by far the messiest. Leaving people with only half a body when the other half was God knew where. Only, God couldn’t possibly exist on a battlefield.

How could anyone find glory to God or glory period in a place that was clearly forsaken? It was a land of misery and dust. There was nothing glamorous about it. Destruction and ruin were left in its wake. Children were orphaned and others were collateral damage. It all seemed so senseless. What was the point of making a stand when it just brought you to your knees anyway?

Sometimes there was a ceasefire and men would take the time to throw up, cry, or bleed out slowly. The smell made an already grim landscape a hellscape. Gunpowder mixed with blood. Sweat and tears intermingled with strewn entrails. Cities crumpled and burned. Screams reached to the heavens only to land on deaf ears. No one was listening. The pleas continued and so did the fighting.

Being in the Calvary didn’t lessen the experience. If anything, it added to the horror that was already happening. Horses got shot and riders thrown or worse had both legs broken as the dead animal collapsed atop the rider. Horses trampled soldiers, an inexperienced rider or a spooked horse might end up trampling a friendly even. The first time it happened, the sickening crack of the skull under the hooves, had Matthew heaving despite everything he had already seen. He had known that man. Johnny. He thought about saying a brief prayer but what was the point? God wasn't listening anyway. Not here.

The last man standing. They were dead, all of them. Except for him. How was he still alive? _Why_ was he still alive? Mason wished the memory would be gone forever, like his men, but he knew it would haunt him for the rest of his life. The ambush. The screams. The slaughter. Blood. Oh God there was so much blood. Run. What was left of the Cavalry tried to get away. They didn’t make it. He rode on alone, navigating on sheer instinct to live.

Coward. Surely, he would be hanged for being a coward. Only…they hailed him a hero. That. No. That wasn’t right at all. He deserved to die. He shouldn’t be alive. He _did not_ deserve a medal. Apparently because of the fallen men’s sacrifice, some more forces had been able to move in and take out the enemy as they pursued him and the few remaining with him. The medal was like a lead weight on him. It weighed on his mind. His soul. His very existence.

Pawns. They were all just pawns. A cruel joke for God to laugh over, because such a God could not possibly be merciful and just. Not in war. How was any of this worth making a stand over? It wasn’t until later that he found out their commanding officer, a Captain, had sent them all on that mission as a decoy. Their deaths were acceptable, if it meant winning the war. Matthew Mason saw red that day as he tackled his very surprised Captain to the ground with a viciousness he hadn’t realized he had. A growl so deep and guttural in his chest that was more than just a feral noise escaped his barely parted lips, his teeth bared in a snarl of contempt.

They tousled and turned in the dirt, kicking up dust and growing a crowd around them. It should be an easy win for a man Mason’s size. Anger and adrenaline alone are sometimes not enough to win a fight. Not easily, at least. At some point, the Captain managed to pull out a knife and get a good, deep cut on his face. The pain didn’t even register. It was kill or be killed. And Mason wanted this man to pay. Wanted this man to _fucking die already_.

Strangulation. What a way to go. That coughing and gasping for breath. The fight in your opponent getting weaker and weaker as you choke every last ounce of breath from their chest. It felt…good. At least, it had. In the moment. It had felt right. Oh God. What had he done? The busy camp was quiet, except for his own heavy breathing, which felt loud in his ears like church bells. He lifted his head to meet the gaze of one of the onlookers.

Slow motion. The world barely moved. There was no talking. Scarcely any breathing. Blood and sweat dripped into dry earth, giving it a moment of moist respite. But when his eyes met that of another soldiers, it felt like someone had suddenly hit the fast forward button of his life. Everything happened at once then. Shouting. They were shouting he killed the Captain. That he had gone crazy. They were right. On both counts.

Mason knew he could no longer stay here. Everyone was grabbing for him. Trying to stop him. He was not a man to be stopped that day. He managed not to accidentally kill anyone, but he left many in his wake injured. A horse. He stole a horse and rode away. He never looked back. He rode the horse hard and cruelly, until the poor beast dropped dead. He hadn’t been the one doing all the running, but he was breathing hard all the same.

Crawling. He was crawling on his hands and knees. Any minute now, they would find him. Pick him up and take him back. Probably put before a firing squad. Except he continued on for what felt like miles. Thirsty. So thirsty. His canteen had run out hours ago. Going. He wasn’t sure what kept him going anymore. His own madness maybe.

A mirage? It had to be mirage. Why would there be a church in the middle of nowhere? A church of all things. A laugh would have escaped his chapped lips but instead all that came out was a bitter sputtered cough. God didn’t exist. Couldn’t possibly. He crawled into the safety of the church. The door was open, as if waiting for him. Calling to him. The place was deserted but pristine. Not a single mote of dust. Definitely a mirage. He didn’t care. He leaned against a wall, closed his eyes and promptly went to sleep.

When he awoke and still found himself inside of church, he was surprised that was for sure. Everything had happened so quickly, he hadn’t really had time to process it. But now? He was alone with his thoughts in a House where reflection happened often. What had he done? He didn’t deserve to live. Why couldn’t he have just died with his men? Why hadn’t he stayed and let himself tried.?If he hadn’t been hanged or shot, then left rotting in a jail cell would be a fitting end for man like him.

Why did he keep going? What was the point? Mason pulled out his sidearm and looked at it. He put it to his temple. His chin. Even in his mouth. He even drew back the hammer at one point, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger. Tears streamed down his face. He sobbed himself back to sleep.

When he came back to, this time he was startled to see a nun looking at him with a smile but concern. The sun coming through the stained-glass windows silhouetted her frame. It gave her an almost angelic look. Except God didn’t exist so it stood to reason that angels didn’t either. “Ma’am.” The single word came out a cracked whisper.

“I think you need these more than I do.” She took the gun that was still in his hands and pressed a Bible with a rosary on top of it in his hands instead. She smiled at him again. Before he could respond he didn’t believe in God, he once more fell asleep.

“Hey…hey Reverend? You okay Mister?” A boy kicked at his feet as the voice slowly reached his ears. Wait. Whaaaaa….? When Mason opened his eyes, he was no longer in a church, but all be damned if that Bible with the rosary on top weren’t clutched in his hands like a vice. He was in a wooded area, propped up against a tree near the side of a road.

“Reverend? Ya hit yer head or somethin’?” The boy crouched down to the ground to get a better look at him.

“Sorry. I am fine. Thank you, my child.” Mason gave a kind smile to the boy.

“You look in an awful way Mister.” The little boy frowned at him.

Ah. Children. They certainly had a way with words. Mason went to stand only to slump back down because of the bout of dizziness that washed over him.

“My Pa’s acomin’. He’ll be here soon. I found ya out here and I ran and got ‘im and then I ran back. He is bringin’ a cart to carry you. He had to hitch the horses an’ stuff. And Mama she is baking you a nice pie. Oh, you’ll like my Mama’s cookin’ Reverend, you sure will.” The boy spoke excitedly like young boys do.

He let him, listening with a smile and patience he hadn’t realized he had before now. The sound of horses and cart coming their way soon reached his ears. He tensed for a moment before he realized the it was just the boy’s father.

The father and son took them back to their small farmhouse. The family there let him stay there as long as he needed to recover. They didn’t ask him many questions. Except for the boy. Lord have mercy, did that child have so many questions. They were good folk. Kind folk. It didn’t seem to matter he had just appeared out of nowhere one day.

Once he was well enough to do so, Mason helped out where he could. Mending a fence. Chopping firewood. It was the least he could do for this family that was letting a stranger stay in a hay loft in their barn. On days he couldn’t work he would read from the Bible. He even tried praying a few times, but he just never knew where or how to start.

One day when he was almost back to full health, the boy’s father paid him a visit. “My boy, takin’ a likin’ to you, y’know.” There was a piece of paper in the man’s hand. It had been crumpled and clearly fidgeted with before now, nervous fingers curling and uncurling around it.

“He’s a good lad.” Mason smiled but he felt there was something more to come. That the other shoe was about to drop, as they say.

“I know…I know you ain’t no Reverend.” The man can’t look him in the eyes.

This stopped him cold and he swore his heart stopped too. He cleared his throat and found some composure. “No, I am not.” The man offered the paper to him and he took it. When he saw the picture of him on the wanted poster, a lump caught in his throat. He glanced at the father.

“They say you killed a feller with yer bare hands. Mebbe ya did and mebbe ya didn’ but that don’ matter ta me either way. You had plenty of chances to hurt me or may family an’ ya didn’. The man standin’ in front of me now ain’t that man in the picture. But yer well nuff to travel and I’d appreciate it if ya didn’ linger much longer. ‘msorry. I don’t want no trouble…ya understand, dontcha Mister?” The father had a look of shame in his eyes, as if booting out a wanted criminal wasn’t the right thing to do for his family.

How could Mason possibly be angry at this man? Who had only shown his kindness since day one. Had known for God knew how long he was a con and a fraud. “I do. Thank you very much for everything. I will never be able to repay the kindness to you.”

“Then don’. Repay the kindness to others. Whatever ya did or didn’ do don’ matter now. What ya do here and now that do. An’ one other thing. My Missus, she made ya somethin’.” The father nodded over to the clothesline. There were freshly handsewn priest vestments that had been pressed and starched, hanging on the line.

A preacher. Him. Good Lord. Who would have thought? Certainly not him. “I hope you understand then, I will not be staying for dinner tonight. Give my best to your Missus and the boy. I reckon, I will be heading out soon.” He turned to go gather his freshly made clothes.

A gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him. “Reverend, one more thing. Heard tale of a place called Deadwood. Their church burned down an could use a preacher. A lawless land but a place good as any to start over, the way I figure it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Reverend. Would he ever get used to being called that? He wasn’t sure but he had been given a second chance. _God_ had given him a second chance. Had given him a chance to repent for his sins. To maybe one day, find something to make a stand when it mattered.


	2. Chapter 2

Make a stand. Feh. The guslinger spat on the ground at the thought. All those fools lining up to go play war. Fucking idiots. He had seen enough death thank you very much. By his own hands but he’d never drawn on anyone who hadn’t drawn on him first. He just…didn’t make friends all that well and people usually ended up pissed off about something or other. To be fair, he would try to warn them. They never listened. He was good and quick with the draw, a pistol in each hand.

Dust. Horse tracks. A broken horseshoe. A repaired one. A new town. A one-night stand. Watching. Staring. Everywhere he went they looked at him like the stranger he was as he passed through yet another town. He never did have any interest in laying down roots. It was just no use for someone like him. It was easier to be a drifting mercenary. With nothing to be beholden to, but his own code of honor, he was free to do whatever he wanted. Making a stand was for suckers and he was a lot of things, but a sucker wasn’t one of them.

Clayton ‘The Coffin’ Sharpe hadn’t always been the man he was now. Hell, it wasn’t even his real name. There was a time when things were much simpler. A time when he was a fool and didn’t see the world for exactly what it was. Young and stupid. It wasn’t often he reflected upon such things, as he didn’t enjoy doing so in the least. It was best to forget. The world was an unkind and cruel place, a lesson he had learned the hard way.

There weren’t a lot of choices for a poor boy like him. He could have stayed at the family farm to help out, but he’d always been a restless soul. Staying in one place just never really seemed to suit him. So, when the opportunity to do cattle drives from Texas to Kansas popped up, he practically jumped at. It turned out to be the biggest mistake of his life.

The job had started out simple enough. Herding cattle from place to place wasn’t difficult, if a bit annoying when the cows decided to do their own thing rather than go where they directed. Except, it turned out the cattle they were driving were stolen. Horse and cow thieving got you hanged. When he figured out what they were really doing, he tried to leave. He was going to do the right thing and tell the sheriff in the nearest town.

“Where ya think yer runnin’ off to Amos?” His boss, a man much bigger than him, towered over him.

“Nowhere Sir, just going into town to get some supplies.” He wasn’t a very good liar back then either.

“Are ya now? Yer full of shit.” The larger man sucker punched him right in the jaw.

Amos stumbled and fell to the ground, tears in the young boy’s eyes, as he absently rubbed at the already bruising skin.

“Fuckin’ lily-livered coward is what ya are.” He spat on the face of the boy at his feet. “Ya know what I hate more than a coward?” His boss drew his gun. “A thief.” The gun rang out.

His eyes squeezed shut, expecting to be murdered right there on the spot. When no pain or blood came, his eyes opened, and he looked around tentatively. Behind him a body laid in a pool of crimson. His boss had killed his own brother. He scrambled away in fear.

“That’s right boy. Run. I’mma tell everyone you killed my brother. So ya better run and never look back because if ya do, I’ll fuckin’ kill you next.”

So, Amos, a scared young man at the time, clambered to his feet and ran. He hasn’t stopped running since.

Surviving became vital. He taught himself how to use a gun in each hand, but it took some hard work to get there. Bang. Miss. Another shot. A shattering empty bottle. Red barrel, smoke rising. Another miss. The flash of two muzzles, both bullets hitting nothing but air. Bang. Shatter. Bang, bang, bang. Glass crumpled to the ground, echoing in the night air.

He wasn’t too bad in hand-to-hand either. While he wasn’t a particularly big man, he was quick and knew where and how to make a hit count. A punch just so. Right there. Crack. Smash. A body would crumple at his feet. Most of them were just idiot drunks, so it wasn't like it was challenge to begin with.

Name after name. Town after town. Eyes on him everywhere. It was easy for a man like him to become paranoid and rightfully so, when he saw his face on a wanted poster for the first time. All because he wanted to do the right thing. He had wanted to make a stand and look where it got him.

So, fuck the war. Fuck doing the ‘right thing.’ He was going to do what he _wanted_ to now. Being a mercenary wasn’t a great job, but it wasn’t a terrible job either. The money was decent enough, but constantly on the move and paying to stay at one inn and then the next also added up. It wasn’t easy to save up, especially since he had lines he didn’t cross when taking a contract.

Eventually he heard of a place called Deadwood in South Dakota. A lawless town. Maybe he could finally settle down, something he had fought against for years now. He could stop running and have a second chance at life. A fool’s dream, he knew. He was just so tired. He just wanted to rest. So, while he traveled, he picked up the name Clayton Sharpe. By the time he got to South Dakota, it had been the longest time he had gone using the same name. It wouldn’t be until he met the rest of the Deadwood 5, would he finally make a stand. Maybe he was a sucker after all.


End file.
